


Shoot To Thrill

by RyanRossIsAPrincess



Category: Bandom
Genre: Graphic descriptions of violence, Lots and lots of murder, M/M, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyanRossIsAPrincess/pseuds/RyanRossIsAPrincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is reckless with how he kills. <br/>Mike is more cautious, listening to his convicted brother's advice and planning his steps carefully. <br/>It takes Mike days to plan a murder, while it only takes Tony a matter of minutes. <br/>The first time they meet, it's over a dead body. <br/>So is the second. <br/>And the third. <br/>The fourth time, Mike proposes an idea. It's outrageous and risky, but then again, Tony is nothing but reckless. </p>
<p>So the two biggest serial killers in the nation team up, taking apart lives and towns as a team, leaving the country in shreds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is on hold until Inseparable is finished. 
> 
> And you all get to be the first to know that this is the first book in a three-part series. Feel privileged.

It was a two week long process you see.  Mike learned everything about them down to the detail. Their routine, their families, where they worked. Everything was crucial in picking his next victim. He couldn’t afford to slip up like his big brother had. Every day Mike sat in his car and thought for a long, long time about the consequences getting caught had. That Vic had had to face. He kept the mug shot of his brother in his wallet, and whenever he found a new place to stay he taped it to the bathroom mirror, right at eye level. A constant reminder of the inevitable. There was no room for hasty mistakes. There was no room to fall in love.

It was a ten minute long process you see.  Tony measured his rage, his horniness, the attractiveness of another person, then felt the dead weight of the gun in his pocket and went for it.  He knew he wasn’t an unattractive guy, he could get anybody he wanted. And if he could get anybody he wanted, he could kill anybody he wanted. It was as simple as to use their body to fill his needs and then put a bullet through their skull. He still didn’t get how the presses labeled him a serial killer and nicknamed him and shit. It was pretty funny. Every club he went to, every bar he went to, people would always jokingly ask if he was a serial killer. He’d laugh with them and say no. He must be a pretty good liar if people bought that.

When weeks and minutes coincide, two of the biggest serial killers in the nation come face to face. It was simply chance that they picked the same victim, an even larger coincidence that they picked the same night to kill them. They part ways there, agreeing to keep this meeting a secret and claim the victim together, both men leaving their so-dubbed ‘signature’ markings on the victim.

The ever so cliché, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this” begins to apply to them more and more.

Until Mike proposes that they just run together. Of course, he’s got a plan and rules on how he’s gonna make it work.  Tony goes along with it, mostly because he’s lonely.

Two completely polar opposite styles, completely opposite personalities, completely opposite backgrounds.

Tony’s surprised he hasn’t found the urge to kill Mike yet.

_It’s like trying to force the wrong ends of magnets together. They always flip around and connect the right way._

 

 


	2. IMPORTANT NOTE

**Note:**

**This will be an extremely gory and graphic fic. If you get easily disturbed or triggered by descriptions of blood, murder, vulgar language and/or actions, or anything of the sort, _please refrain from reading_ , _as I will not be held responsible for any actions you take if you proceed to read knowing you could be triggered and find yourself triggered._**

**Thanks.**


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t worry baby brother, I’ll be back soon. You just stay down here okay? Wait an hour or so and then go, alright? Hey, hey, don’t cry, it’s okay. I love you, don’t forget. Stay here, I’ll be back real fast.”

Damn, how long ago had _that_ been? Five years now? Six? Mike didn’t really know, he could always Google the day Vic was arrested next time he found some Wi-Fi to hack into.  He might as well get those words tattooed on his body. They were the only consistent reminder that Vic loved him. Vic had done all this for him. No matter what the police reports said, no matter what the psychiatric reports said, Vic had done everything for _him_ , his beloved baby brother.

It was an easy concept. Why couldn’t people see that?

Oh right. He didn’t exist.

That was possibly the only thing his parents had done right. He had been born at home without any doctor, without being registered medically. He didn’t even have a fucking birth certificate. He wasn’t in any family photos, he was never enrolled in school. Everything he learned was from reading Vic’s textbooks and whatever he found at the local library.

His mom forgot about him a lot. His dad only remembered him when he was drunk and needed a punching bag. Vic was the only one that remembered. Vic was the only one that cared.

That was still true. When the prison allowed Vic phone calls, Mike posed as their dad and talked to Vic. He never shut up about breaking out, about joining Mike, about how proud he was of Mike’s skills.

“I owe it all to you, Vic. You taught me everything.”

Vic chuckled at that. “I guess I sorta did, huh?”

Sorta. Smug bastard. He knew full well that everything Mike could do was credited to him.

Fucker.

Mike checked his gun one more time, and then the knife floating in bleach in the bathroom sink.  He walked around the hotel room again. His finger prints were nowhere, he had slept on top of the comforter (after laying down his own blanket) and then smoothed the wrinkles off of the comforter. He hadn’t tracked any dirt in, if he had he had already cleaned it up. Everything was just as he had found it, if not better.

Perfect.

He drained the sink, picking up the knife with a gloved hand. Mike tucked it into his pocket, parallel to the gun tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans. He picked up the backpack on the bed and slung it over his shoulder, smoothing down the comforter one last time.

With a final glance over, he backed out of the room, keycard in one hand and cash in the other. He had shucked his gloves and sanitized his hands, as to not raise suspicion as to why he was wearing gloves in the dead heat of summer.

He reached the counter, smiling at the employee there. He slid her his keycard and the cash paying for his stay, told her goodbye and left.

Another town successfully deceived. Another victim successfully claimed.

Give it twelve hours before the news spread like wildfire and he was on the front page of every newspaper in the nation.

He smiled and climbed in the car he’d bought a few towns previously. Don’t be an idiot, he couldn’t just steal shit. It was how some of the best people got caught. He had to do the larger portion of his living honestly, which meant occasionally settling down and renting a house or an apartment and getting a job et cetera. Honesty is the best policy, as Vic would say.

Well, partial honesty.

There’s not really much of a difference.

He was working the state of Florida bottom to top, starting in the farthest corner of the state and working his way upwards, leaving a string of bodies and headlines as he went. He was a few hours away from the next town, but that didn’t matter, he’d been making the commute for about two or so weeks now, planning his next murder, learning about his victim. They had nicknamed him “The Alphabetical State Killer”, seriously one of the lamest names out there. That was the most commonly used one. He and Vic had had a good laugh when the name first popped up.

They had doubted that he could get into Alaska when everything first began. Someone had picked up the clues about the alphabetical order he was going in of towns (that was how he rolled at first. But you have to change the pattern up every now and then to avoid getting caught) and thought, “hey maybe he’s going to go in alphabetical order of states too!”.

The police had increased border security in a rush of panic, checking and double checking everything and everyone that crossed the border.

Dumbasses.

With some help from old friends of Vic’s, he had made it across, acquired the necessary tools and did the deed in the largest numbers he thinks he’s ever done. Maybe it was because he was scared. Maybe it was to show them that nothing was going to keep them safe.

Maybe it was a little of both.

Needless to say, the presses came alive in a matter of days, spewing headline after headline, boasting the number dead and their shock that Mike had actually made it across.

He stayed in Canada for a little while after that. He kinda liked it, despite how cold it was. That, and he needed to stay low.

Arizona had been easy. Once the noise about his last spree died down and border patrol sunk back down to the normal amount of security, he made his way back to the U.S. with no problem. He drove his way through the country, stopping every now and then and settling down, like he had to do every so often. He volunteered at the schools, the hospitals, pretty much anywhere that would label him as a hard-working, kind guy.

Vic had taught him that. He had been a teacher at one of the schools for a year and a half, Mike staying at the house and letting Vic teach him on the weekends. Sometimes he even helped Vic correct papers. Their handwriting was similar enough that no one noticed, and if they did, they didn’t say anything.

No one knew. No one suspected. When Vic came home breathing heavy and a maniac grin on his face, blood caking dry on his hands, the first kill had been made. They’d only been in town for two months. Long enough for people to overlook him as the murderer. Vic cleaned himself up and sat at the kitchen table with Mike, the two working together to create a speech to give the class on safety and what to do if someone suspicious approached them. They had never laughed so hard in their lives. 

It was only a matter of days before the kill became common knowledge in the town. Vic practiced his speech and his acting skills on Mike, faking nervousness. He had everything down. The on-edge shakiness that every adult had now, the heavy swallowing, the feigned bravery in the face of a bloody, gory death.

“It’s perfect.” Mike had whispered up from the couch, looking at his older brother with wonder in his eyes.

Vic’s grin stretched wider.

“See Mike, if you pretend you’re scared too, everyone rules you out. That’s where most people go wrong. Be scared, Mikes. Be _terrified_.”

Those were more words that Mike should probably tattoo on himself somewhere. But for now, he needed to stay a blank canvas. If he had any sort of marking that could single him out, he was screwed. No piercings, no wild, unnatural hair colors, no tattoos. Vic had somehow gotten away with a nose ring. Mike still wondered how he had managed that.

The rest of Mike’s kills after Arizona had flown by in a blur. No one suspected him, and his faux terror paid off in large quantities. Over a hundred people were dead by his hands now. Over half a thousand by his brother’s.

Every phone call with Vic ended the same way: “Be scared, little brother. Don’t get caught.”

Don’t get caught.

A challenge and a motto condensed into three words.

***

Tony was a reckless fucker and he knew it. He left evidence everywhere, blood and bullets and finger prints and tracks and on the occasion, he even let the security cameras catch a clear shot of his face.

It was a rush. Exhilarating. The number of his victims climbed higher and the crazed buzz inside Tony like he’d just downed a twelve pack of Mountain Dew and snorted some Fundip increased as well.

He’d gotten a name from the newspapers now. He didn’t really get _why_ he needed a nickname, they had his real name, so why couldn’t they just use that? The fuckers were trying to make profit off of his kills, off of the stupid fucking nickname they’d given him. Was it because he killed everyone in the same fashion? Probably.

Whatever, it didn’t matter. He was having the thrill of a lifetime and nobody cared enough to really _try_ to stop him.

And just for that, he killed someone new every day.

It was always a spur of the moment decision. He would sit in the corner of a club or a bar and look for a bit, watching the intoxicated people dance and drink and grind against each other.  The effects of alcohol on the brain always fascinated him. He liked watching people slip into the slow descent of crappy motor skills and slurred speech.

It was fucking funny. 

More often than not, he’d utilize his acting skills from back when he was in Drama Club at school and pretend to be drunk too, and then talk a dude or a chick into coming back to his hotel room with him.  What, so he wasn’t picky about who he banged. He wasn’t picky about who he killed either. Sex is sex, murder is murder. You all can shut the fuck up about gay sex being a ‘sin’. It felt good, much like killing people, so it really shouldn’t matter to you. Okay? Okay.

Anyway, Tony was having one of those moments now. He felt like shit, and he wanted to fix that. Nothing like a good lay and some blood on his hands to raise his shitty spirits.

He glanced around the bar, looking for a victim. His gaze settled on a girl around his age, with long brown hair and blue eyes. She was drunk (or at least a little tipsy) and was dancing and laughing with some of her friends who were obviously more intoxicated than her.

Tony made his way over to her, and asked her if she wanted to dance.

She shot a look at her friends that said ‘look at what I scored! Attractive dude wants to dance!’ and let Tony drag her out on the dance floor.

They danced for a while, and Tony wanted nothing more than to speed the night up. He leaned forward and kissed her neck, whispering into her ear.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Her already wide eyes blew wider, and she nodded quickly. Tony smiled and grabbed her hand, interlocking their fingers.

He led her outside of the club and hailed a cab. Tony pronounced the address of his hotel clearly and sharply, the tipsy girl wrapped around his arm not taking any notice. She was too busy kissing at the tattoos on his neck.

The ride was nothing but making out, Tony letting his hand drift to the top of her thigh that her almost indecently short dress left exposed. She whined and grabbed at his hand, pushing it towards her panties.

“Not yet,” he breathed into her ear, and she released a moan at full volume, not even suppressed.

The cab driver glanced back at him, grinning.

“She’s a pretty one you got there.”

“Isn’t she though? Beautiful.”

The girl giggled at the men and resumed the intense fascination she had with the tattoo of an owl that Tony had on his throat.

“Well here you go kids. Have fun.” The driver said, grinning wide.

“We will. Keep the change.” Tony responded with a sly grin.

The key to his hotel room kept floating away from his preoccupied hands, the girl grabbing them and placing them on various spots on her body every fifteen seconds. At one point (he wasn’t exactly sure when) she released his hands long enough for him to grab his key and unlock the door, dragging her inside.

The rest is really a pleasure filled blur. Somewhere along the line their clothes disappeared, and they made their way to the mattress. At some point there was the tear of a condom being opened, and moans began to drift through the paper thin walls.

And Tony didn’t even know her name.  But that never mattered.

As they lay there in the afterglow, he almost regretted what he was going to have to do. Almost. It was a temporary twinge. She had been a pretty good lay, he couldn’t lie.

She was passed out now, lying on her side, the effects of the alcohol kicking in.

Slowly, Tony peeled himself away from her. He walked about the room, collecting his clothes and putting them back on his sweaty body. He found her dress and peeled back the blankets, turning her on her back. He slid the dress on her, and then her shoes (heels. He never understood heels). He scooped her up and carried her to the bathroom. She stirred slightly, but she fell back into her drunken slumber as quickly as she had surfaced.

Tony began to hum ‘A Day in the Life’ by the Beatles. He didn’t know why, but he felt like it fit the situation.

He stood her in the bathtub, grabbing the rope he had left on the counter with one hand, holding her up with the other.  He grabbed both of her wrists in one hand and wrapped the rope around them, and then raised her arms and tied her wrists to the bar where the shower curtain hung. He pulled the shower curtain off with a yank, the metal rings jingling with the force.

Gently, he brushed the hair back from her face. “It’ll be quick baby, you won’t feel a thing.”  He walked out of the room and returned with an empty syringe and needle. Pulling the plunger back, drawing in air, he used his index finger to tilt her head back, leave her neck bare and exposed.

Gradually, he broke the surface of the skin with the needle, until he felt that he was deep enough into the vein. He pushed the plunger forward until it hit the bottom of the syringe.

He pulled the needle out and waited, watching as the color left her face and the gentle snores she had been emitting ceased.

Exiting the bathroom once more, Tony searched around the room for the device he was after. When he found it, he breathed a sigh of relief. He hated having to replace tools.

Tony opened her mouth with the same fingers that had tilted her head back and slid the gun between her slack jawed mouth. He pulled the trigger, relishing the feel of the kick of the gun as it released a bullet and the nearly silent discharge (silencers were magical. They let him keep his hearing _and_ shoot shit. Magic).

Crimson painted the walls of the bathroom and Tony himself. With a grin, he dipped his fingers in the pooling red liquid. He borught his fingers against the slick surface of the mirror, painting out words with the blood.

_The time has come, the Walrus said_

_To talk of many things_

_Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax_

_Of cabbages and Kings._

_You all are the cabbages, which makes me the King. XO._

Alice in Wonderland. He had distant memories of reading that book when he was little. He liked it. It was a good book.

Of course, his love of stories had earned him the name the Storybook Killer. So he liked leaving little exerts from stories he’s read and tacking his own message on at the end. Nicknaming him after his habit was a bit overdramatic, but it’s not like the media knows how to do anything less.

He cleaned up the hotel room (which mostly consisted of flushing the condom down the toilet and maybe straightening the comforter a little) and gathered his materials. He’d clean them later.

Tony washed his hands and face, removing the blood splatters from his maniac grin and shaky with adrenaline hands. Deciding to leave the money for his stay and the key to his room on the bathroom sink (right in a little pool of blood. Let’s see how bad they want the money now) he left, tugging a hoodie over his blood-drenched t-shirt.

Closing the door behind him, he began to walk into the parking lot, stopping abruptly when he heard the nearly inaudible sound of the door he had just left opening. He turned fast, quick enough to catch a glimpse of a man ducking in the room.

Shit.

Running back and throwing the door open, he was met with an odd sight.

The man who had run inside was standing in what appeared to be awe at the sight of the bathroom.

“Two in one night? Why me?” Tony spoke, causing the man to jump and point a gun at his skull.

“Whoa, whoa, just put the gun down, let’s talk about this okay?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” The man spat. “You killed my victim and I don’t take to kindly to that.”

“ _Your_ victim? I’m sorry dude, but she’s kinda sorta mine. You missed your chance, sorry bud.”

“Oh fuck you. I’ve got a name to live up to kid, I don’t have time for your fucking amateur bullshit.”

“Amateur? I’ve been at this for two years.”

The man snorted a laugh. “I’ve been doing this since I was twelve.  You are an amateur.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Ever heard of the serial killer Vic Fuentes?”

“Name somebody that hasn’t.”

“I’m his little brother.”

At this, Tony stopped. His jaw, despite his best attempt to avoid it, fell.

“The doctors said Mike was a story though. A figment of his imagination. Mike….. _you_ don’t exist. The reports said that Vic just wanted to take credit for the new killer. You know what, prove it. Right here, right now.”

Mike (or maybe he wasn’t Mike. Maybe he was some undercover cop. A really bangable undercover cop.) looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Uh….. sure.” He replied, the skepticism still apparent on his face. He pulled a phone from his pocket, scrolling through a list of numbers for a minute before clicking one. Mike (or an imposter) put it on speakerphone, looking at Tony with a look that said “watch this”.

The sound of bloods dripping down the drain and a dial tone were the only noises in the room until the voice from the phone broke the silence.

“Hello?”

Mike (or a liar) dropped his voice several octaves and adapted a thick Hispanic accent. “Yes, this is Mr. Fuentes, is  now a good time to speak to my son?”

“Yeah, sure. One moment please.”

Tony and Mike stood in the room for a second as some shitty music played. It was interrupted by a voice suddenly and with out warning.

“Hey, little brother. I heard about Florida. You did good, mi hermano. I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah? Well hey, listen. I’ve got the Storybook Killer here with me. We, by chance, picked the same victim. And hey, get this: He doesn’t believe I exist.”

“Ah. I see. So I’m on speakerphone then. Welp. He’s real. He’s my own flesh and blood. So. Yeah. Speak up so I know Mike’s not talking to a dead body because he’s finally lost it.”

Tony stuttered for a moment, wishing he could shoot the smile off of Mike’s face. “I’m here.” He said at last, the words dry and dying in his throat.

Mike smirked.

“You be safe brother. And you, Storybook kid, you’re reckless as all shit. You’re going to get yourself caught.”

Tony chuckled. “I know. It’s a bigger rush being careless though.  I don’t have to worry as much.”

“Yeah,” Vic said, “But everyone knows everything about you.”

“Well, there’s a dead body in the room, so they obviously don’t know enough.” Tony said with a laugh.

“Aw shit. Mike, help this boy clean up. We should probably get off the phone now, knowing this kid’s style it’s gonna take you a bit. Talk to you later.”

“Yeah Vic. Bye.” Mike said.

He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and looked at Tony. “Believe me now?” He asked with a smirk.

“I guess I have no choice huh?”

“Not really, no. So how are we going to do this?” Mike asked, gesturing to the open bathroom door.

“I guess you could uh, do your thing without changing what I already did? It’s only fair, because I was here first.”

Mike nodded. “I suppose it’s fair. Here is where we say goodbye, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it is. See ya on the six o clock news, Mike Fuentes.”

“See ya on the headlines, Tony Perry.”

Tony walked out of the hotel room just as Mike slid on gloves and pulled out a knife. His heart was pounding. Mike Fuentes was a real person AND HE JUST TALKED TO VICTOR VINCENT FUENTES okay that was it he was living a murderer’s dream this wasn’t a real thing this wasn’t life he had DIED

Okay Tony. Stop. Get a grip.

With a grin, Tony hailed a cab and gave directions to the nearest car dealership. He was going to need a car long-term for his next plan.

He watched as the city sped by, the internal buzz still alive within him.


End file.
